


Slipping Away

by TigerStripedSniper (seazu)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 04:32:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2335412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seazu/pseuds/TigerStripedSniper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Which is better--to have laws and agree, or to hunt and kill?”<br/>-- Lord of the Flies, William Golding<br/>~~~</p><p>Tide meets shore like reason meets instinct. Two men among few others are polar opposites with their own ways of thinking and their own plans for salvation. But on an island, when everything is stripped to its bare bones, and people are truly exposed for the monster within, who will win out; brains or brawn?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slipping Away

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just going to put this out there straight up, I write Sebastian a little bit closer to the ACD and Kim Newman interpretation, so he can come off as a lot old school and sometimes use terms that make him come off as racist, homophobic, misogynistic and generally a bit of a pig. Please don't think this reflects the writer in any way, because it honestly doesn't, and I won't stand for accusations like that. 
> 
> If you can manage to separate characters from the writers, please continue!  
> I spend a lot of time and energy adoring ship-wreck and survival documentaries and books, and shows, and this is something I've wanted to write for a while, so I hope you enjoy it, too.  
> This is just a little taster, a proper fat chapter is on its way.

Someone was screaming.

A sharp wailing sound. Like a fucking banshee or something. That whine of the dreaded dentist’s drill, or a bullet whistling past your head (if you've been lucky enough to experience that).

His eyes flickered open, but not of their own accord. They were pushed open, forced, against the waves of air and his eyes rolled forward to meet the horror unravelling at an unforgiving pace around him. It wasn’t screaming after all, it was the air scraping around his face and making his skin ripple like he was on a fucking roller-coaster and plunging downward. It was that stomach twisting falling feeling that jumped him awake and he was suddenly met with the urgent need for oxygen. Which seemed ridiculous given the amount surging at him; but that was only because the cheap-as-fuck plane he was in had had the wings ripped backwards and the roof seemed to have lifted off somehow, or the nose had come up – that’s what it looked like, anyway. He wasn’t in much of a position to have a proper nosey at this point. Despite it all, in the moment he found the fresh air a sort of relief.

Something in him kicked into action and he pushed hard against the air stream, hard as he could, to raise a hand up enough to grab the oxygen-mask which was struggling to keep a hold of the plane too, in all honesty. But once he was getting some air in, he was at least feeling a slight bit more relaxed. Or as relaxed as one can be when your tin death-trap is hurtling towards the ground at who-the-fuck-knows mph. And he highly fucking doubted ‘brace brace’ was going to do much for him at this point aside from lodge his spine into his skull when they made their bumpy landing.

Well, this is it, Basher, time to make your peace and prepare to meet your maker!

_Yeah, fuck that._

~~~

Somewhere near the village of Khutwanda in Maharashtra, India, Sebastian Moran is getting out of his beat up old truck (god bless that heap of junk, the fact that it’s still running after what it’s been through is nothing short of a miracle – and the same goes for its driver), and he’s coming around the back to meet the rest of the gang responsible for all of the poaching in that area.

“I did it, chaps,” he’s saying, shit-eating grin only disguised by the ugly mass of wiry hair that’s slowly consumed his face. “I got her. My white whale. Just call me Captain Ahab.” Pulling down the tailgate and untying the tarp he reveals her: gorgeous as ever, no real signs of the weeks of toil that went in to bringing her down, not looking half as run down as Bastian, almost like she was sleeping, if it weren’t for the trickle of blood coming from her eye.

You see, the thing with poachers is, most don’t carry guns for anything other than protection. There isn’t fancy equipment for catching tigers, they go old fashioned. Big ol’ bone-crunching, no-escape metal traps. You get stuck in one of those babys, you’re done for good. Point is to avoid ruining the fur – that sells for a tonne, especially if you get a big guy, because no one wants a pelt full of bullet holes. Adult males obviously go for more, but they’ll take anything these days. All those chinamen looking basically every part for TCM, fur is more for decoration though.

That’s what makes our Basher so special. He comes here fresh from military desertion, and has a shot on him no poacher gang’s ever seen before. Like you wouldn’t _believe._ He can take those bastards out from miles, straight through the eye. Course, it’d take them to be in the open for that, and most times you don’t get that luxury. But the boy is a hunter through and through, born and bred for the trade thanks to papa Moran. And as he says, once you’ve hunted men, nothing’s hard.

One of the guys is smiling a crooked grin that exposes a gold tooth that really just looks yellowed and awful. Not like Sebastian is one to talk; what remain of his clothes are tattered and thick with dirt, he is cut and bruised all over and what isn’t muck, could be a dark tan, everything wry and unkept, hair everywhere, slick with sweat. He is more bigfoot, than man. But the smile shines through, and doesn’t stop him from addressing the man, “come on, who has a camera on them? Someone take a photo of us before you take her apart!”

His chest seems to float up when he poses -- a rough grasp of her in the crook of his arm, around her neck – like one of those muscly cartoon characters, but it’s really just bursting with pride. His neck would be invisible if his chin wasn’t raised so high. His crime immortalized, he abandons her and his boys get to work stripping her down. They’ll be out of the area in two or three hours.

There’s a lot of money to be had in poaching. Billions every year. That’s why the biggest crime syndicates in Asia partake, it’s their biggest income revenue. And with people like Basher Moran on the books, they’re destined to make the big bucks.

“I’m done.”

“What?”

“That’s it. I told you all before, once I pin her, I’m out. I’m done. Already spent weeks out there hunting her. Actually… lost track of time, could have been months. I’m surprised I wasn’t fired in the meantime.”

“You know you weren’t fired beca-“ his sleazy black moustache swivels and twitches as he speaks. You can almost see the greed in his eyes.

“-I know, Adi, I wasn’t fired because we are paid by the corpse, but you know exactly what I mean.”

A look passes between them and Sebastian breaks it only to reach forward and pinch a cigarette from Aditya’s front pocket, perching it between his lips he searches through his own pockets to find a matchbook. Soaked through from his last swim after Kali. Another helpfully chucks a lighter to him, and his reactions are a little worn, but not so much that he misses. When he’s had a drag he smiles wide again, “well, lads, I’m fucking famished, so I’ll be having a feast tonight, getting absolutely wankered and fucking the finest bints in the village before I pack up and go back to England. And if I have time, I’ll possibly squeeze in some time with a doc to patch up my old bones. I believe I am long overdue for a visit.”

And while his prize was stripped to the bone, that’s exactly what he did. Of course, given the outstanding warrants for his arrest, (the entire reason he’d diverted to India instead of facing his punishment in dear old England) he knew his best bet for evading detection was to use an independent airline and fake papers. Good ones if he could get his hands on them in short notice – you know, the kind not drawn in crayon or with smudged ink. Though given the standards for most things in the parts he frequented, that might be a bit out of reach.

~~~

The screaming was still there, but it was blurred by a static fuzz that made his brain ache worse than any clatter or migraine. The backs of his eyes actually throbbed, he could feel every inch of himself and his whole body seemed to float with that same static in a way that made his skin itch. It blocked out every sense. His vision: gone. Taste and smell: nope. Hearing: well, unless the radio was stuck between channels – no way. Touch: well… that was a tricky one, and certainly the first to come back, as with a rush of pain, followed by a surge of adrenaline his body tingled to life, sharply enough to clean his vision as he jolted awake.

Eyes wide he stared around him with a certain wildness you might attribute to some kind of feral dog. _Arms, check; legs, check; face, still beautiful, dick… oh, thank fuck._ Preliminary assessment complete, he started to allow himself to become aware of his surroundings and figure out what the fuck was happening.

They tell you this is what happens: ‘you get what you pay for’. Fuck them. The fucking infected dick-slit, cross-eyed sister-fuckers that they were. Jinxing him and his no-longer preferred method of transport. Now he was stuck in the middle of twisted metal and the smell of burning and the surrounding gurgles and screams and aching moans of scraping propellers. His first trick would be getting out of here, what was left of the plane. A few forceful bangs and the buckle let him free, only when he stood, shakily (bambi springs to mind, or rather stumbles and falters) did he realise half the plane was already empty – the cuntfucks must have gotten off and left him there while he was unconscious. Motherfuckers. They’d be hearing about that. Leaving him, their obvious best choice for survival here. He’d wager none them had read an SAS Survival Guide in their pitiful lives.

The pilot had at least somehow, by accident or design, managed to navigate them to some strip of land on their way down, which he would later consider as being quite impressive, if on purpose, later.

His foot hit water first, but it was ankle deep and he was barely on land before he spotted the others. The plane held about fifteen people, tops, plus the pilots and single flight-hand. They looked surprised when they saw him, some of them anyway. It took him a little while to realise that the ones who looked less surprised were just corpses laid out on the beach. Recognised most of them from getting on, too -- he had a keen memory like that, even after the crash. And there he was, that smarmy dicksuck with the eyebrows and the leery smile, drawing shapes in the sand with some stick he had salvaged, like nothing had happened. Around him people were panicking and crying and checking wounds and generally causing a ruckus. Wasting time, _and_ energy, in his opinion. And that asshole was just doodling in the sand. 

Typical.  


End file.
